Healing Wounds and Mending hearts
by PerniciousLullaby
Summary: This story takes place post-mockingjay. Katniss and Peeta both try to cope with what was left in the wake of the Rebellion; their relationship. New beginnings ensue and a healing from past wounds begins to take shape. The path to recovery may be bumpy and full of obstacles and hardship, but can Katniss and Peeta find their way through the darkness and into the light? Dual POV's.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: I am a complete novice when it comes to writing stories and publishing them and such. I have read many a fanfiction, and I hope it has prepared me well enough. I ask you to please bear with me through this journey, and to please enjoy it. I am extremely nervous and anxious, so I sound like a robot. Ha ha :) Let me know in the comments what you think and please give criticism. It is greatly appreciated for a young writer such as myself. Thank you, and enjoy!**

Chapter one: Hope

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Darkness and light coalesce and writhe within the confines of the fireplace. Crimson and blood orange hues flicker in a sinuous, flaming dance amid the charred wood and burning, red-hot coals, smoldering tendrils stretching wispy fingertips up the bricked chimney. They reach to touch the fresh air and the spring.

The fire's supposed to emanate cordiality, sparked to swaddle my feeble form in warmth and comfort. I currently curl into an antique, dilapidated and rickety chair, cocooned in rugged wool fabric with feet tucked beneath my bottom and frail palms clutching a pearl; the cool orb kisses my chapped lips with cold.

But I feel nothing.

I do not feel warmth. I do not feel cold. I am numb to all.

The core of my being is hollow and aching, a void of nothingness so obscure and opaque it's become a sentient creature of serpentine origins. The teneborsity is vast and coils about my body like a viper, injecting my mind with in an epidemic of emotion: grief, misery, sorrow, hate, rage, frustration, guilt, self-doubt, and self-loathing. All these lethal toxins rose in a fever pitch and burned existence from me, leeching me of any semblance of life. I am now nothing but a husk of flaccid flesh and brittle bone. Wan epidermis strained over atrophied muscle and spindly limbs, skeletal and all sharp angles in my emaciation. Scars and blemishes mottle my skin in pinky patterns of inflammation; violent shades of purple stain my under eye from sleep deprivation, eyes sunken, cheeks sallow, lips thinned and cracked, jagged tresses matted and lank from the absence of hygiene.

I know of my appearance. I don't need a reflection to confirm my slow death. But still Greasy Sae insists I look upon myself in the mirror's silvery surface, shouting at my supposed absurd and ludicrous actions, pleading for me to seek the will and want to live, to oppose the grief and dejection and strive to overcome it. She claims me resilient, strong in character, strong in my determination and tenacity, that no obstacle can possibly fell me, no matter the pain or suffering I've endured; that my loved ones endured.

But it's all because of me.

Sae has shoved me into the bathroom on more than one occasion, jabbing a gnarled finger at the reflective glass. She commands me to look, to gaze at the damage I have inflicted on myself. "What have you done to the Girl on Fire, my sweet girl? Why do you do this? They wouldn't want this for you." Tears usually moisten her slate-grey irises, running in thin rivulets through the valleys and gulches imbedded in her wrinkled face. Her voice trembles just slightly, the gruff rasp warbling. And then she'll wrap me in a tender embrace, caress my knobby spine with calloused and work-hardened hands, and lift her chin to look into my eyes. Those same leathery palms cup my jutting cheeks, stroke them with soothing touches. They remind me of the soft flutter of a butterfly's wings. And finally, she'll whisper the words that grip my esophagus in a vice, that have my vision misting from the blur and sting of tears. "She wouldn't want this for you, Katniss. She'd want you to be happy, to live for something more."

And with that, I look. And I see.

But I perceive a product of the Capitol, not the potent permanence Sae says I have. Not a girl with the durability and strength to survive two Hunger Games and lead the successful Rebellion that ensued. Not the one who poached on government land to feed her starving family; the girl who became the sole provider at age eleven after the crushing death of her father; who forced sustenance into her vacant, invalid mother, who volunteered to die in place of her sweet, fragile sister.

I glimpse an echoing chasm where her heart should be, long since crumbled to ash, ceased to beat. But yet there is a small coal nestled in its dusty remains. It gives off a lenient aura, faint but pulsing heat.

It is because a petite, minuscule piece of me still hopes. I said there was an abyss of emptiness, but I lied. Of course I lied. It makes the anguish of life easier to bear, the burden of living lighter, freer. Hope can only hurt, and I hurt enough already. It becomes even more awful when I see the shell that encases that ember, the mutt disfigured by fire. Huh, the Girl on Fire indeed, what a suiting and ironic epithet.

And then I think of them.

Finnick, Rue, Boggs, the Leegs, Mitchell, Jackson, Castor, Messalla, Prim, and all the people I have lost or killed to further my own survival, by their means or my own. I think of all who left me; my mother, Gale, and Peeta. My mother couldn't handle her grief, the ghosts that haunt this desolate place too terrible to confront. So she left me here to fend for myself, saving her own hide, throwing me away like refuse, disregarding me completely. Now I see what I meant to her, after all the sacrifice, the death, sweat, tears, and blood I shed. I wasn't worth braving the agony.

I meant nothing.

The parting between Gale and I was mutual. Nevertheless, it still leaves me raw and sore and rocks me to the very marrow of my bones. The sheer cunning and ruthlessness in the creation of those bombs was that of a hunter, one of great skill, who knows the inner trappings and plays of unsuspecting prey. He utilized human emotion and toyed with their instinctual response to save their wounded and dying. And in turn, those horrid creations of war stole my sister from me. It scorned me and carved a deep, hollow pit in me; the part of me that loved and cared for Gale as a brother, as a friend, as a kindred spirit, gone. So we said goodbye. He flocked to the mantle of District 2 to aid the budding new government, receiving valor in his continued military service. And I remained here, rotting in eternal exile.

And Peeta, the Boy with the Bread, the sweet, kind, gentle, loving, loyal boy I once knew, gone. The one with such a way with words they sounded of lyrical prose. The one who could appease any hurt be it physical or mental. He was the one who saw decency in any individual, in me, in any situation no matter how bleak and horrible. Ocean-blue eyes otherworldly in their hue, locks of hair seemingly spun from gold, long, fluttering lashes that kissed his pale cheeks, strong in physicality and mind. The boy who resembled the dandelion in spring, seeds drifting upon a balmy breeze and wafting about me in the calm that is him. The one who loved me.

He is gone.

But still I hope.

I hope he returns, but I understand if he doesn't. After all, the raw memories of his family dwell here. Why would he want to return to their grave? Plus, I am here, and the hijacking morphed his love into a venomous hatred that wishes only to maim and murder me. He still resides in the Capitol, undergoing treatment to reverse its effects. When he will come back, I don't know. He may never, but all the same, I still hope.

It's selfish of me, really. I'm the reason for his torment at the hands of the Capitol, for the warping of his mind and the marring of his body. But when you're clinging to a fraying thread, the thin material about to give, you desire what you cannot have most.

After I think and see all this, I always leave the bathroom. Words never escape my lips, only shallow breaths as tears drip from my quivering chin. I leave Sae in there to sigh and hang her head in defeat. She then shuffles about the house to clean and prepare meals, her granddaughter finding entertainment in her homespun rag dolls, murmuring nonsensical words and flitting about like an insect. I go back to sitting in the ancient wooden chair, burrowing into blankets and slipping that damned pearl from my pocket to hold.

Just as I do now.

I'm seldom visited by Haymitch. And when he does grace me with his presence it's to slur belligerent words laced with the reek alcohol and acrid tang of bile, spittle flecking his lips. The liquor and spirits he downs smells of machine lubrication and bitter chemicals, and I gag at his foul stench. He has no grounds to yell at me about my current state when he fares just as well as I do. The only difference is his overindulgence in drink and my self-deprivation of sustenance: whether it be sunshine, water, food, or exercise. I allow myself none of it. If anything, his appearance is worse. His olive skin is slick with sweat and the heady scent of body odor, his clothing stained, teeth yellowed, silver eyes glazed, hands shaky, breathing labored, greying hair dull and greasy, a large pouch of a belly from excessive amounts of whiskey, and stubble stippling his jaw. Apparently he gave up sobriety as soon as he walked into his house. Can't say I blame him. But he's an annoyance; a real pain in my ass.

When he's not yelling at me he's making idle conversation with Sae about the reconstruction of the district, the daily happenings in town. They think I am deaf to the hushed sounds of their voices, so they speak of me and my condition. I occasionally hear words thrown about that involve my mother or Peeta, but I take no notice. I just stare at the pristine white plastering the walls, mind vacant and dazed.

Intermittently, I sneak a glance at my father's bow and quiver of arrows resting dutifully in the corner as if standing sentinel, the supple leather jacket slung over a plush chair adjacent it. Seated on the turquoise cushion is a cardboard box, which houses my personal effects from District 13. Sae made sure to place them in my periphery, tempting me to don the jacket and grasp the bow and quiver, to escape into the warmth of outside and find solace in hunting.

But still I sit.

I regularly fall asleep here, only to be awoken by horrid nightmares consisting of lost children and the roaring flames of my sister's immolation. Sharp, painful exhalations follow, nausea roiling in my gut, bile rising unbidden onto my tongue, tears rolling down my cheeks and staining my wobbly lips with liquid salt, throat raw from shrieking bloody murder. I don't sleep, no matter the peaceful thoughts I think before my lids flutter closed and a sigh leaves me.

And sometimes, on nights when my thoughts stray to him, I dream of Peeta. But they're flickers of past memories from District 13, nothing pleasant and serene; his attempt upon my life, his snarls of contempt and cruel remarks at my expense, the haze of malice polluting his beautiful irises as he glared in my direction; just everything. Everything that wounded me and caused me pain. But I can't say I am free of fault. My aversion to help, and the derision I held for the boy he had become, only made matters worse. My denial of my feelings hurt us both in the end.

But it doesn't matter anymore.

I could just end this wretched cycle; could've ended it a long time ago. But still I cling to that suspended thread, dangling over the edge of a precipice and gazing into the black, wondering if its embrace is as comforting and brimming with warmth as this fire. But hope is a fickle bitch, and lulls me to some semblance of self.

So I wait. I wait for him, if rather peevishly. It seems childish and in vain, but I do.

I wake shrieking from a recent nightmare, one where all my deceased friends and loved ones bury me alive, soil filling my mouth, the dead all around me, asphyxiation impending. Their unsympathetic laughter is devastating, an obnoxious chorus assaulting my emotions like stone hitting flesh. Tears and mucus drip from nostrils and tear ducts, vomit threatening to spill from my bleeding lips. I must have bit them while dreaming. I stumble from my perch, lurching into the stainless steel sink within the kitchen and retch. Barely anything comes up, most of it gastric juices. I ate scarce a morsel for breakfast, as per usual. I rinse my mouth out and gulp down tap water, savoring the cool against the torn and raw. I wipe my lips, drying my chin with my sleeve.

And then I hear it.

It's faint, but I perceive the telltale sound of metal meeting dirt; a shovel. Someone's digging in my garden.

But who?

I steady myself against the sink, a dizzy spell having taken me, fragments of light and dark staggering my vision. When I've collected my wits, I gather my blankets and walk to the door. My hand freezes upon the knob. _Breathe Katniss, just breathe, it will be alright_. With a final breath to brave the unknown I pull open the door and step into the sunlight, bathed in its warm radiance. I bask in it for a moment, choosing my steps carefully as I shuffle down the front stoop. I take the curving flagstone path to the barren garden dug around the corner, and halt in my tracks.

And I see him.


	2. Chapter 2:Encounters

**Note : These first 2 chapters are to set the tone for the story as well as the pace; Peeta's POV will be written next chapter. I just wanted you guys to get a feel of how Katniss is faring through all this, and see the world through her eyes. Bleak I know, lol. :P This chapter is about the many different forms of meetings Katniss experiences, whether good or bad, and how she deals with it. Just bear with me folks, and hope you enjoy.**

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Chapter Two: Encounters

I am stationary, incapable of movement, my only action the roving of my eyes. Those golden locks curl from the humidity and tepid temperature, sweat slicking his pale, flushed skin along with smudges of soil and clumps of earth. His clothes fare worse, great streaks of brown and emerald staining the crisp white of cotton and denim jean. Breath is labored from exertion, muscles of the upper torso bunching with the force of digging. His leather boot stamps the metal blade of the shovel into the ground, knuckles white upon the shaft, flinging the loose clusters of dirt into a growing mound. Scars interlace the exposed skin of his forearms, neck, and clavicle, the perspiration giving them a glossy sheen. He halts a moment to wipe his face, smearing his brow with brown. He's more lean and wiry than I remember, his stocky musculature starved of nutrients. But he's still striking as ever. My heart leaps with a jolt, galloping in my breast.

This has to be some hallucination, a mirage from the heat, a fever dream. I curl my nails into my palms and feel sharp pinpricks of pain.

Real, this is real.

"You're…you're back," I rasp, voice gruff from disuse.

He goes rigid in his movements, stopping his work to turn and face me. Those cerulean, baby-blue irises take me aback; that tortured haze is absent, no longer transparent or opaque black. Just blue, unearthly blue.

"Well, Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday, but yeah I'm back," Peeta says. "By the way, he said he can't keep pretending to treat you forever. You have to pick up the phone."

His eyes rake over me, chiseled brows furrowed, a frown marring his mouth. I half-heatedly attempt to tidy my unkempt hair, suddenly self-conscious. I succeed in only matting it further. I sigh, and go back to clutching my blanket, a defensive against that hard stare. "What're you doing?" I gesture at the bramble of bushes in the rusted wheelbarrow resting beside him. Startled from his thoughts, he glances at them sheepishly.

"Oh, this morning I went to the woods and dug them up," he says. "They're for her."

I squint at the scraggly plants, noticing petite blossoms and buds protruding from the green leaves. The word _rose_ registers in my muddled brain, a sudden ire consuming me, fists clenching, jaw wound tight, harsh expletives wanting to burst forth.

But then I see. _Oh_.

"Katniss..."

They're primroses; butter yellow like the wanton glow of a lantern. My sister's namesake. I feel my eyes moisten, my lip tremble. I nod my head in acquiescence and turn on my heel in a dead sprint, barreling through my front door and locking it behind me. I lean against it, knees wobbling like disturbed gelatin, lungs afire, breath wheezing gasps of air. A pungent perfume suddenly assaults my senses. I gag as it wafts up my nostrils and clings to my esophagus, my tongue salivating in revulsion. _Rose_. I stumble up the carpeted stairs, foot catching on the landing and sending me crashing to the floor. I lay in a crumpled heap for a moment, pain subsiding, gradually staggering to my feet. I enter that room. That singular white rose the clean hue of snow exuding the awful fragrance, a little wilted and withering. I grasp the vase and dash back down the stairs; throw its contents into the burning embers. The flames erupt into pluming cobalt, incinerating the rose to charred ashes. And with a strangled yell, I hurl the vase at the hardwood floor, crystalline sapphire shattering into a million shards.

 _Good riddance_.

But the smell still lingers, permeating the air, clinging to my garments, my flesh. I fling open the upstairs windows, curtains billowing in the balmy breeze. I shed myself of clothing, pointedly disregarding the mirror, and step into the pristine porcelain of the shower. Heated water warms my skin as I cleanse my body raw, fingers clawing out the snarled knots of my dark tresses. After, I cleanse my palate, breath smelling of saccharine sweets. I search for proper attire to wear in the woods then hop down the stairs and see Sae sweeping away the fragmented vase. She looks up with raised brows.

"Drop something, child?"

"No, I uh…didn't like it. Too gaudy." Sae just chuckles and begins whistling a bawdy tune. I stride over to where my father's leather hunting jacket is slung, the supple material gleaming from disuse. It's cracked and mottled with wrinkles, but smooth to the touch. I pull it on and grab my bow and quiver, turning to find Sae barring my path.

"Not until you eat. Got some eggs and bacon for ya in the kitchen," she smiles, eyes crinkling. "I must say, I could really use some fresh game."

I heap the eggs into my mouth, my tongue still not accepting of taste. I gulp down water, leaving the bacon and sliding out the back entrance, a spring in my step, my gait lighter, almost without gravity. But my jaunty pace is abruptly halted when I come upon the town square. Carts crafted of rickety wood litter the vast dunes of rubble, horses hauling masses of bloated corpses and charred carcasses. Some miss limbs and heads, appendages gone; others internal organs, putrid entrails trailing from ballooned abdomens. People are scattered about and donning masks as they sift through the debris, gloved hands and clothing coated in ash. I struggle to keep my meager meal down.

"Miss Katniss?"

I whirl about at the mention of my name, the looping drawl familiar. It's Thom. One of Gale's old mining companions. His grey Seam eyes twinkle, yet are forlorn, flecks of slag speckling his shady hair. He takes off his glove and shakes my hand. I nod. "Hi, Thom."

"How ya doin', girl? Haven' seen ya out n' about in a while," he says, lips curling in a smile.

"Doing better," I reply. I glance about, gaze finding the wreckage of the mayor's two-story home. "Did they find…" Thom follows my gaze, countenance suddenly grim.

"Yup, the whole family. Plus two they had workin' for 'em at the time." He shakes his head in sorrow. "A cryin' shame," he mutters.

My lids snap shut, mind conjuring past reminiscences, swirls of vivid images. Madge, the girl who gifted me my iconic mockingjay pin. Discreet in her bravery and modest in her beauty. Nothing but sooty residue now, a corpse to decay and be buried. I stutter a hasty farewell to Thom and make my way through town, my posture now hunched, my step sluggish. My eyes are trained upon the gravel path as I traverse through the remnants of the Seam. I shuffle towards the Meadow and pause yet again, the sight before me much worse than the horrid scene prior.

The place once of swaying ripples of grass and vibrantly-hued wildflowers with trees interspersed has become a mass grave, hordes of the deceased being piled into the colossal black hole, the sickly sweet stench of decomposition potent. I weave through the horse-drawn carts and skirt the grave's edge, gaze avoiding the bodies beneath me. I reach the familiar barbed-wire fence and listen for the purr of fatal electricity, even though I know it hasn't flowed here in forever. But as they say, it's hard to kick the habit. I slip under and escape into the woodlands, embracing its natural pulchritude and inhaling its scent. However, my sudden spurt of vigor has long since vanished and I seem to be stumbling instead of trekking. I come upon mine and Gale's old rendezvous, desiring to go further but not having the strength or will. Sickness roils in my intestines, saliva flooding my mouth with the sudden need to retch. I'm disoriented, head blossoming with pain, temple seemingly being pierced by a blade. My jaws clench and I try to placate the queasy feeling by tracing the crevasses in the large rock. Rough crags against smooth olive skin. The urge to spew sick only heightens and I scramble back the way I came. Thom spots me when I'm crawling through the Meadow, aiding me home in his carcass cart and settling me on my couch, leaving me to my own devices. I lie there, gazing at the ceiling, pondering as to why the world conspires against us petty little beings when I perceive a low hiss.

It's one of feline origins, hostile and cautioning. I sit up and spin about; he's as scrawny and wasted as me, eyes the shade of excretion narrowed, his mane mangy and riddled with bare patches and matted with grime, flesh gouged and seeping crimson, hind paw twitching at an odd angle. Buttercup's hackles are raised. His poufy tail swishes as if issuing a challenge. I glare at the pathetic creature and spit. I'm perplexed as to how he got in, how he managed to navigate from 13 all the way to 12. But the bewilderment is subdued by the howling rage boiling in my veins; my edges fraying, resolve fracturing, body quaking. The deluge of emotion that has been blockaded by denial ruptures forth. I am explosive in my fury.

"She's gone." I jump off the couch and stalk over to the cat, whose hissing vehemently. "You can hiss all you want, but you'll never find her. Prim's not here." Those misshapen ears perk up at the name, tail curling in excitement, gaze suddenly hopeful.

Frustration wells within me; throat housing a stone, vision clouding with tears.

And finally, I cry.

Wailing, shrill sobs that wrack my entire being. "She's not here! She's not here you stupid fucking cat! She's GONE!" I begin lobbing random objects at Buttercup, ceramic shattering, glass breaking, wood splintering. Tears streak my pallid face, mucus dribbling from my nostrils. "Get out!" I hurl a picture frame. "I said get out!" It hurts, it hurts so much. Too much. And after seeing the corpses of my neighbors and fellow citizens, Peeta and his primroses, and now Buttercup, I feel as though I'm suffocating, lungs caving. I fall to my knees, folding into a fetal position, clutching my heaving chest and weeping. Buttercup pads over and nuzzles my ribs, and then begins to wail with me. He yowls his grief, as do I. We just lie there, curled into one another, the throes of heartache searing my gut and causing me to hiccup. I eventually peel myself up off the floor, cradling Buttercup as I shuffle up the stairs. The only sound is my sniffles and hitched breath. Buttercup's soft breathing. The silence is impenetrable and smothering. I halt at the forbidden door, fingers trembling as they grasp the knob and twist.

It's just as I remember, and entirely Prim. Everything arranged meticulously, well-organized. The only imperfection the thick coating of dust now clinging to everything. I lie down on the bed and inhale her scent of lavender and honeysuckle, pillow pressed to my face. Buttercup snuggles into my belly.

And despite the lenient beams of sunlight perforating the dark, we sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Note:** **I decided to revise this chapter because I am a perfectionist (one of my many flaws haha) and some aspects bothered me a bit. Granted they were small and minuscule, but nonetheless they've been fixed. :) Hope you have enjoyed the story thus far, 4th chapter will be available for reading soon, and comment please! Advice and criticism is much appreciated and needed. And sorry if I don't respond, I'm still trying to figure out how this site works. Thank you!**

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Chapter 3: Ghost Girl

"Katniss…"

I watch as her grief-stricken eyes the hue of molten ore go glassy, her brows creasing and little chin quivering. Her pert nose flares as her breaths become rapid and anguished.

My heart thunders in my chest.

My palms sweat.

I want so desperately to pacify her hurt and anxiety. Want to embrace her, hold her. Press my lips to her forehead in a placating gesture. But my mind wars with itself and clasps my body within a vice, strangling my movements. But this apparition of a girl gives it pause.

This is not the girl I remember. The girl I'm supposed to fear.

It _can't_ be.

She seems so meek, so fragile; as if the wind could blow her away with a faint breath. As if my subtle touch could scatter her into dust. She's wafer thin, raven-black hair dull and limp and without shine. Hunger gnaws at her flesh, every bone prominent and jutting. Her clothes hang from her body as if too large, the wool blanket swaddling her like a babe. And those eyes, _her_ eyes; still so hypnotic and tantalizing despite the crushing grief marring their beauty. Once teeming with fire and tenacity, now having grown dismal, empty. But the pain is evident there. She still feels. The old Katniss isn't entirely gone.

My Katniss.

 _She was never yours_ , _and she never will be. She'll play you for a fool._

My eyes squeeze shut as I ward off the sibilant hisses in my head, hands clenching until they reach the point of pain **. Shut up, just shut up**.

My lids flutter open only to stare at her retreating form as she flees, abandoning the blanket in her wake, soil now clinging to the rugged material. I sigh and bend to pick it up. Dusting it off, I fold it with care and place it on the lawn, recommencing my work.

I'm almost finished planting the last bushel of primroses when I perceive a sudden crash from inside the house. My head snaps up. Moments later I hear a hoarse shout ring out and what can only be glass shattering. Then all is still, all is quiet. Concern and fear grip me.

"What the hell…" I drop the shovel and rush to the front of the house, stilling on the front stoop. Again a battle wages; my heart and mind fight for supremacy, one trying to grapple the other into submission. **Just open the door, she could be hurt!** _It's a ruse, a ploy! You cannot trust, she's a deceitful serpent._ **She could no more hurt you than a fly, she's so weak. Open it!** _Let your guard down and you leave yourself susceptible to ambush, boy. Pfeh, so foolish and idiotic._ **Come on!**

 **"** Peeta?"

I whirl about to find none other than Greasy Sae to greet me, a basket of groceries in hand. A kindly smile softens her grisly features, delicate warmth flickering in her eyes. She wraps me in gentle a hug. "I wasn't expectin' to see you not for awhile, child. Thom said he'd seen you walkin' home from the station. I'd thought he was yankin' my leg!" She pulls back, extricating herself. She cups my cheek with a knotted hand. "You look even more handsome than the last I saw you, son." She grasps my hand to lead me inside. "C'mon, I'm makin' breakfast."

I pull away. "I don't think that's a good idea, Sae. At least… not right now." She shakes her head, thin lips pursed.

"When will it ever be the right time, Peeta? That girl needs your company! Hasn' had any since she got here. Well, except me. But that's 'sides the point." She waves her hand as if warding off gnats. "She stays cooped up in the house, barely eats a damn thing, and never leaves that chair. I'ma 'bout to get rid of it."

"Is that why she…"

"Looks like somethin' chewed her up and spat her out? Yup, you'd be right."

I frown. "I thought Haymitch-"

"That drunk ol' bastard? Oh, all he does is bitch and piss her off, the ol' coot. I've wanted to put my foot up his dairy air on more than one occasion myself," Sae huffs, crossing herself. "He hasn' done anythin' for her, mostly jus' comes to talk to me. About her, no less." She plops down on the nearest stair, frustration and annoyance plain on her face. She gazes directly into my eyes, stare hard and unyielding.

"You know, she sat in that chair as if she were waitin' for someone." She points a gnarled finger at me. "That someone is you, boy. So buck up. My girl needs you."

I grin sheepishly, the conflicting emotions in me running rampant. I'm furious with Haymitch and have the intense desire to throttle and shout obscenities at him, to punch his ugly mug 'til it caves. And I'm greatly saddened that Katniss has fared so poorly, utterly alone in dealing with her grief. But the one thought that lightens my brooding mood is of Sae and her endearment, her devotion to Katniss. Without her, I fear Katniss would be dead. The very notion makes me cringe.

"How about I bake some bread and come by later for dinner?" I compromise. "I gotta finish planting some primroses and do some laundry. Maybe do you a favor and kick Haymitch's ass."

Sae chortles a laugh, groaning as she gets to her feet. "That'd be alright. Oh, and you tell that drunkard to eat somethin' other than a liquid diet; his breath smells worse than a skunk." She shuffles to the door.

I chuckle. "Will do, Sae."

I turn and stride back around to the garden and finish up; inspect my handiwork with hands on hips. Satisfied, I collect my tools along with the blanket and place them in the wheelbarrow, carting them over to the side of my house. I set them down and snatch up the wool fabric, hurrying through the front door and throwing it in the washer with a recent load and some newly bought detergent. Setting off again, I head toward Haymitch's.

The ol' bastard and I need to have a chat.

* * *

I bang on the wooden door, its azure paint chipping, dents riddling its rough surface. "Haymitch, open up." Nothing. I try the tarnished brass knocker, and pound harder and with more force. "Haymitch!" Still nothing. "Alright, I'm coming in!" I turn the knob and push, finding the door unlatched. I step inside.

And instantly regret it.

I gag on the potent reek that immediately pervades my nostrils, eyes watering from the stench and sting. It's so dense and foul it could be a living creature; exhaling putrid decay, a writhing body of filth, its heat intensifying the stink. Glass bottles and miscellaneous pieces of garbage litter the floor, finding a home amongst the dirt and grime. I think I see something skitter about a corner and I visibly shudder. My boots make a hideous crunching sound as they wade through the waste and debris, and yes, roaches and other parasitic insects. I feel vomit ebbing up my throat and driving its way into my mouth.

 _How the hell does he live like this?_

I spot Haymitch, dead to the world with drool dribbling from his scraggly chin, sprawled at his kitchen table, drained liquor bottle loosely grasped in hand. His greying hair is stringy and oily and plastered to his wan face, jaw gaping and displaying rows of yellowed and jagged teeth. I get a whiff of his rancid body odor, a glance at his sullied attire. _When was the last time he bathed?_

I jostle his shoulder. "Haymitch." Nothing, just a subtle shift in his sleep, the smacking of his lips. I roll my eyes skyward and sigh, "You know, it wouldn't have to come to this if you'd just wake up. It would be a calm, rational discussion between two adults, but now you've really pissed me off." I stride toward the kitchen sink and select an empty glass at random, filling it to the brim with frigid, ice-cold water. _I'm really gonna enjoy this_ , I think impishly. And with a great hurling motion, I splash the contents over Haymitch's slumbering form.

He startles with a splutter, bellowing his rage, stumbling from his perch and flinging the liquor bottle at my head. It narrowly misses. He's whipped out a blade and is waving it about frantically, as if to ward off some unforeseen adversary. When he's fully awake and functional, he notices me and my raised brows and smirking lips. "What the hell, boy! Tryin' to exact some sort of revenge or divine punishment on me?!" Haymitch seethes. He's fuming. Good. I just pull out a chair and take a seat, gesturing for him to do so as well. "You wouldn't wake, so I had to resort to more drastic measures." He grumbles as he slouches down, setting down the weapon. "I swear you and the girl are trying to kill me. Give me pneumonia or some shit." He drags a hand over his craggy mien. "What do you want?"

"I think you know perfectly well."

He sighs and leans back, propping up an arm. "Ah, so you've seen sweetheart. She's a sight, ain't she?"

I slam my fist on the table, shocking the old man. "Are you kidding me? You were supposed to take care of her, not leave her to rot in that goddamn house!"

"I tried to help her, boy. She wouldn't leave that fucking chair! Not even Sae could get her outta it."

All I hear are excuses. The rage is building. The urge to slug him is growing.

"Being an asshole and screaming at her isn't the right way to go, Haymitch! How about some care? Some compassion? Show her you actually give a shit instead of berating her every chance you get?" I feel my temper breaching its boundaries. I stand up to pace like a caged beast, my breaths quick with anger. "She's _dying_ Haymitch. She's a skeleton, a ghost! Her eyes…they were so…vacant and lifeless when she looked at me. Yet so full of pain. And grief. " I exhale a shaky breath and run my fingers through my hair, feeling hot tears of frustration prick my eyes. Haymitch watches me all the while, expression unreadable. "She needs help. Kindness. Not some middle-aged man drunk off his ass yelling—"

"Okay, Okay! I get it! I'll stop being an asshole," Haymitch hisses, massaging his temples. I stop prowling, glare sharp and unforgiving. He sighs and looks up at me with an imploring gaze. "It was just hard, boy. You know, seeing her like that. Seeing such a strong girl so broken up inside that she's wasting away," he says, voice cracking and apologetic. He scratches his beard. "It was like she was reverting back to the skittish girl she was in Thirteen, the one who hid in closets and ventilation shafts; scared of her own damn shadow." He grabs a glass bottle sloshing with spirits from the vast assortment upon the table, taking a drag. "That was after you were captured."

I didn't know any of that. What else don't I know?

"I'm sure you've guessed by now her mother's abandoned her. Got some fancy nursing job in Four." Haymitch lets loose a belch. "Gale, too. Doin' some soldiering in Two. Both left sweetheart here to live out her life sentence. Alone."

 _What?_

"Life sentence?"

At my confounded expression Haymitch raises an unruly brow, surprised at my ignorance. "Didn't the Doc tell you anything? After she assassinated Coin there was a trial. It was determined she'd live out her life here in Twelve, in exile."

I'm stunned; flabbergasted. All the ire knocked out of me like the breath from lungs. I knew she would be punished for killing Coin, prayed it'd be lenient and nothing too severe, but exile? Sure, murder is punishable by death or life imprisonment, but this particular death saved the nation. And Katniss was rewarded by witnessing the family she so cherished and prized beyond all else depart without so much as a farewell, one by one, until she stood singularly; solitary in her loneliness. Never being able to escape the legal confines that bind her to chase after and plead for them to stay; to beg for their affections, their love, a shoulder to nuzzle, a body to hold and weep into, for guidance in her grief, her desperation. Isolated and alone. A shadow of her formal self.

A ghost.

I reminisce to that eventful day, conjuring up the image of her grim determination, shrewd in her knowledge of what her actions would cost her: her life. I knew as soon as I witnessed her posture shift, her aim seeking and true, and the arrow puncture its target through the jugular. Those plump lips peeled back in a feral snarl, jaws gaping and ready to consume the pill that would end her life. And as her mouth descended, it bit into flesh. But it wasn't hers; it was mine. The pain was blunt and searing, but I held fast, casting the fatal toxin away, her body thrashing in my grasp. I couldn't let go. I wouldn't. Told her so. But the seething melee whisked her away, and all the while she clawed and hit and spat and kicked, bucking like a wild animal.

I close my eyes, loosing a breath.

"Peeta? Boy, you all right?"

My eyes snap open to reveal Haymitch's anxious stare, concern marring his brow.

"I'm fine. But all that aside, none of it excuses you for your behavior, Haymitch. You should've put your own feelings aside—"

"Dammit boy, I know! I fucked up; I've made an ass of myself. It's been established. Now, may we move on?"

I sigh and plummet into the nearest chair, raking my fingers through my dirt-flecked hair.

"Yeah. Uh, Sae's invited me to dinner tonight. You should come." He starts to shake his head in blatant refusal, but I cut him off with a pointed gesture. "Come; make amends. Fix things between you and Katniss. The sooner we start mending things with her, the faster she'll recover."

He nods his head. "And what about you?"

I'm put off by the question. "Me? What about me?"

"You know, to fix things. What're you gonna do?"

What _am_ I going to do? Our first encounter was thick with heartache and anguish, the souls of the dead swirling between us. And I'm not the same as I once was; my emotions and feelings toward Katniss are conflicting, perpetually warring with one another. Old sensations brimming with adoration and affection underlie the new ones; intense in their pain and terror and murderous intentions. My psyche is a brewing cauldron of contradiction.

And I don't know if our relationship would ever surpass the status of cordial, platonic friendship…if Katniss could even harbor such feelings for me, anyway. But I don't trust myself. Nor should I; the tiniest instance could trigger an episode, leaving me a crazed threat to her health, at worst a deathly peril. I'm not going to risk it. I'll keep a comfortable distance, if only to keep Katniss safe.

I have to keep her safe.

"I want to be her friend…but I don't think I could ever be anything more than that. My feelings are so…confused and muddled together I can't tell what's what anymore. One minute I want to hold her, to touch her; the next, that touch turns lethal and I want to strangle her. Kill her. I'm a danger to her, Haymitch. I mean, I'll be there for her, stroke her hair and let her cry on my shoulder if need be. But I can't…if I ever…" I succumb to the tears, letting them trickle down my cheeks.

I taste their saltiness on my tongue, my quavering lips.

The hopeless endeavor I've thrust upon myself.

The bright, agonizing pain of longing and want, of desire and crushing _need_ , but knowing I cannot have, I cannot take. And I cannot give. My own mind won't allow it.

It's excruciating, this pain.

The loneliness ebbs and flows like the tide, then crashes upon me like a colossal upsurge of despair, consuming me in mind-numbing cold.

Drowning. I'm drowning in self-pity and sorrow so heavy.

So deep and depthless.

But then I feel a subtle spark of warmth at my shoulder. The touch is feeble, meant to soothe. I gaze up into the watery, inebriated grey eyes of Haymitch Abernathy and see a mentor, a friend, a father, and a source of solace. Weird how you find succor in the most unusual and most infuriating of people. He pulls me into a rough embrace, arms clasping me to him. And with that, the sobs rupture forth and I'm clutching at his shirt, face buried in his shoulder, my weeping wracking both our bodies.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers, breath hot in my ear. I hear his gravelly voice thick and husky with anguish, the deep baritone breaking. "I know you'll find a way, son. You always do. That's why I love you two." He strokes my heaving spine, shushing my hiccupping tears, and extricates himself from my crushing grip. "You're like my kids, and like any father, I know you like I know myself. And if you ever need to talk my doors always open. Just get me up," he chuckles. "But I would prefer smelling salts to the cold ass water you two dunk on me."

And he smiles.

A rare and coveted smile despite the absence of hygiene, but a smile nonetheless.

I feel one tugging at the corners of my own lips, tightening the trembling flesh there.

I hope he's right.

"You know, Sae said you need to stop drinking; says your breath stinks something awful. And this close to you, I'd say she's right," I sniff feigning disgust, mouth forming a wobbling, crooked grin at his scowl. He spits.

"It'll be a cold day in hell before I get rid of the ol' numbin' juice. Stuff's like magic."

* * *

I leave Haymitch with a few parting words, mostly pertaining to his personal cleanliness and diet. He just grumbles as I stride out the door laughing all the while. I may still hold past grudges against the old man, but they crumble in the wake of our conversation. I know Haymitch deeply regrets his past errors and decisions; it's obvious from his profuse apologizing. I just have to learn how to forgive.

It used to be so easy for me.

Back home I unload the washer and load the drier, hanging other articles of clothing on hangers about the basement. I head up toward the kitchen and grab the proper ingredients and essentials from the pantry, prepping the counter for bread-making. At such times, I'll find my mind wandering to my family; my father's friendly blue eyes the azure of sky and warm and loving smile; my mother's pinched beauty, cold and severe, marred by a permanent scowl; my two brothers, Wheaton and Rye, and their endless shenanigans. Us three boys all looked similar in our appearance, differing only in height and personality. We couldn't be more diverse, each like night, day, and the rising dawn.

I try to stem the beginnings of more tears and instead focusing on the task at hand. After I finish mixing and the dough sets, I begin kneading. The way it yields to my touch, its malleability so effortless and easy, acts as a sort of stress reliever. It's very therapeutic and I begin to relax, whistling a jaunty tune as I go. I smile as I shape the dough, forming loaves riddled with nuts and fruit, and place them in their tins. I dab my brow and blow out a breath as they go into the oven, then lumber up the stairs to hop in the shower. I scrub the earth and flour from my body, the powdery white substance and grainy soil flowing down the drain, the shampoo a vanilla fragrance. I throw on fresh, clean clothes and glance at my alarm clock; it's a quarter 'til six.

I've still got plenty of time to kill so I pull the blanket out of the drier and fold the rest of the load. I instantly inhale the blanket's perfume, burying my nose in it, clutching it to me. Katniss's scent is amplified by the heated fabric; the rich, sweet, woodsy fragrance of the outdoors. The vast pine woodlands, the musky scent of clotted dirt and coarse bark, the heady aroma of grass and all the flora blossoming throughout. I detect a faint hint of peach nectar. It's so Katniss I don't want to part with it, to have something of her to cling to at night. But I know I must give it back; even if she won't give me back my comforter. Or my clothes. The primal, male part of me smirks in satisfaction at the thought. I found my belongings gone when I arrived home, knowing full well who took them. The peach nectar scent is a dead giveaway; it's the detergent I use to launder my garments. It makes me giddy, a gushing, sappy love pooling in my chest. I neatly fold the blanket and place it on my couch; I'm still beaming when I take the loaves out of the oven and wrap them in parchment paper. With a final glance at the clock, grin still tweaking my lips, I deposit them in a basket and set off for Katniss's house. Boots scuffing the flagstones as I go.

My stomach gives a guttural growl, hunger gnawing at my gut. I haven't eaten since this morning. Even then, the meal was meager and held hardly anything of substance. _Glad I'm eating now_ , I groan inwardly.

I'm shuffling up the steps and raising my fist to knock when Sae flings open the door, looking distraught and crazed from anxiety. Fear crushes me.

"Have you seen Katniss?" she asks, rasping voice trembling.

"Not since this morning, no." I'm finding it hard to swallow, a huge lumping finding a home in my throat. I wring my hands, my fidgety nerves fraying, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. "She's not here?" I wheeze.

"No! I wouldn' be askin' you if she was, now would I?" Her pitch has raised several octaves, vocals shrill and harried. "I came home to find the house a wreck, glass an' urns an' vases broken all o'er the floor! Even some pictures of the girl an' her family didn't survive. Her huntin' stuff's still here so she can' have gone far." She clutches her skirts. "I even asked 'round town and Thom said he hadn' seen the poor girl since he brought 'er home from the woods. Said she was sicker than a dog."

I'm already pushing passed Sae and setting the breadbasket on an entryway in-table. Sae has swept up the wreckage from Katniss's tangent, but scuff marks and scratches deface the hardwood floor. Blood droplets stain the wooden panels by an ataman. A painful terror grips me. I spin around to face Sae.

"Did you check all the rooms?" My own voice has also risen in pitch, vocals hoarse and strangled.

"Every single one. Except…" Her eyes widen in sudden realization. I'm already bounding up the stairs, taking two at a time. My heart is hammering against my sternum, and I'm gasping for breath as I bust through Prim's bedroom door. I find two occupants slumbering within.

" _Meeeooww_." Buttercup leaps from his perch upon the windowsill and skulks about Katniss's frail form, poufy tail swishing to and fro. He stands sentinel, guarding over her fitful sleep, her body quaking with whimpers and pained moans. A frown furrows her brow and she's sweating profusely. I make my way over to her. If her sleep had been peaceful and full of sweet, blissful dreams, she would be the impeccable image of death, only the faint rise and fall of her chest exhibiting any signs of life. But she begins to toss and turn, legs tangling in the sheets. I sit next to her and shush her, taking her wan face between my palms and stroking her cheeks tenderly, wiping away stray tears and brushing aside errant ebony curls. She whispers my name.

"Katniss, please wake up. It's only a dream, it's not real. I'm here, I'm right here. Katniss…" I plea, voice soothing and warm with affection.

And her eyes flutter open.

"Peeta…?"


End file.
